John Greenleaf Whittier

The harp at Nature's advent strung Has never ceased to play; The song the stars of morning sung Has never died away.

And prayer is made, and praise is given, By all things near and far; The ocean looketh up to heaven, And mirrors every star.

Its waves are kneeling on the strand, As kneels the human knee, Their white locks bowing to the sand, The priesthood of the sea!

They pour their glittering treasures forth, Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends its incense up From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewy cup She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills Rise white as wings of prayer; The altar-curtains of the hills Are sunset's purple air.

The winds with hymns of praise are loud, Or low with sobs of pain, -- The thunder-organ of the cloud, The dropping tears of rain.

With drooping head and branches crossed The twilight forest grieves, Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost From all its sunlit leaves.

The blue sky is the temple's arch, Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march The chorus of a prayer.

So Nature keeps the reverent frame With which her years began, And all her signs and voices shame The prayerless heart of man.